Bulb planting is not for the faithless. Up to my elbows in the dirt yesterday afternoon, I contemplated this while pushing past cracklingly dry leaves to find earth. How is it that my bags of oniony little bulbs thrive in the midst of death? It's a mystery that they can gather strength and sustenance from the snow that will pack them in, the Canadian blasts that will howl overhead. When the ground is still cold, they'll send up shoots and tiny blossoms, the first sign of new life, heaved up from under the snow.

When you're childless, you cling to such metaphors. Sometimes it's hard to believe that the end result of being in this dark place will be new life springing up, like a soft, baby-pink tulip.

God is here in the dark, pulling roots and stems from the bulb--potentiality. Though it cannot be perceived, He works, pulls, shapes, molds, forms, while I wait for spring.